Tales of the Shadowmen 1: The Modern Babylon

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  “Oh,” Kritchna squirmed in his chair, “I was doing something for Sir Henry, Mr. Appleby.”

  Appleby drew himself up. “I doubt that, for I asked the Master if he had called for you, and he said no. Now, really–where were you? And don’t tell me you were out helping at the stables. I checked there, as well.”

  “All right, all right.” Kritchna threw up his hands. “I confess I snuck into town for an hour and went to the cinema.”

  “Darshan!”

  “It was a Little Neddy picture!”

  Appleby groaned and put his hand to his forehead. “Darshan, Darshan, what am I going to do with you? You know how I feel about cinemas! And sneaking off from your duties, too!”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, the picture wasn’t very good.”

  “It isn’t, but I’ll deal with you later. Come along, young man, and I’ll take you to the library. But don’t you go anywhere, Darshan–we have some things to discuss.”

  With a sympathetic glance at Kritchna, I rose from the table. Appleby escorted me out from the servants’ quarters into the House proper.

  It was just as bad as the outside of the House. Now I knew why the kitchen had seemed so homey and comfortable–clearly the Westenras never bothered to set foot there The servants’ area could be decorated any way they wished. But out here, where they lived–things were different. Everything had to reflect the glory of the Westenras. Here was a great portrait of Sir Henry; there one of Alexander. Between them were dotted pictures of older Westenras, dating back to at least the 16th century. All of them held the same snotty, superior look. At no time did I see any portraits or photographs of Peter. The furnishing were all excellent, of museum quality, but that’s the way they were meant to be They were meant to show off, not be used. I had to wonder if Sir Henry actually had to lay in his bed, or if he had found a way to just hover over it. It was cold. I couldn’t imagine the conference being a success here. Everyone would be too afraid they’d track mud on the carpets.

  As we walked, I taking in everything I could to learn my way around, Appleby suddenly spoke up. “If I’m not overstepping my bounds, sir, may I ask–are you a believer?”

  “Hm?” I looked at him in puzzlement. Thinking back to my train ride, I inwardly groaned. God, not another Spiritualist, please! “A believer in what?”

  The butler held up his book–which I now saw was the Bible. “A believer in the Word, sir; in the Holy Bible and the death and resurrection of Our Lord, the Holy Son of God.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, that! Thank goodness–I thought you were going to say Spiritualism.”

  “Spiritualism? Oh, heavens, no, no, no. Total rubbish, and Satanic rubbish at that! I’ll have none of that!”

  I smiled. “Well, then, we have something we can agree on–at least in regards to Spiritualism being rubbish. I don’t believe in the Devil, though. I’m not a Christian.”

  “I see, sir.”

  “Does that offend you?”

  “No, sir; that’s your concern. But I must admit it disappoints me to find so few Christians these days. The Spiritualist obsession in this country...” he shook his head. “The Bible explains the existence of life after death perfectly well! Where is people’s faith?”

  I shrugged “Faith is fine, until you actually reach a point where all you’ve heard about faces you. Then you want facts. You want to know your loved one is all right; you don’t want pats on the head and comforting murmurings of ‘have faith.’ Ergo, the popularity of Spiritualism Why do you need faith when you can simply ‘talk’ to your loved one and find out the truth?”

  “I suppose,” the butler said. “But I still think it’s evil. The Enemy will use all at his disposal to lure men from the Truth. Spiritualism is just another tool in his arsenal.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, not wanting to get into it. I thought of Sir John. “Then again, perhaps if it makes some people happy, then there’s a reason for it.”

  “You’re speaking of the Rutherford séance?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “It’s common knowledge, I’m afraid. I must admit, it truly upsets me to see Mrs. Rutherford so wounded. She and her daughter are fine Christian people. Even if Miss Rutherford, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, can be a bit too exuberant at times. But their faith should have been strong enough to see them through this. I’m sorry to see that it is not.” He paused before a door. “But enough of that. Gossiping is a sin, and one I must overcome. Please pardon me. This is the library. If you’ll wait in here, I’ll fetch Sir Henry.”

  “Thank you,” I said and went inside. The library was much as I had expected. Filled wall-to-wall with rare and expensive books, not one which had ever been cracked open. It was a shame to see a library treated so poorly. The best ones were those with the pleasant scent of wood pulp all about, with the pages of each volume yellowing and well-thumbed, underlined at the best scenes, used and loved. I was disliking Westenra House more and more.

  I glanced around, looking at the titles. As I suspected, no real attempt at ordering had been done; they were simply shoved inside according to size and color of cover. Here was a first edition of Pickwick Papers, there a history of South America, there a old, rare of volume of Arronax’s sea life encyclopedias, there Hamlet. I found myself reaching up and plucking one of the books off the shelf at random. If the Westenras would not use their own library, I thought, I would. Pulling down a large, black, folio-sized volume, I checked the spine. There was no title. Carefully I opened the cover to the title page and read:

  JOURNAL OF CHRISTOPHER WESTENRA

  (1663-1664)

  A journal! I never would have thought a Westenra would have kept one. Well, I never thought a Westenra would have the intelligence to read or write, but that was cruel. Licking my finger, I flicked a page open at random, near the middle of the book. It read:

  “I have buried the body under the bridge where no one will think to look for it. As soon as we have a good flood, the grave will be smoothed out. I dare not let anyone know what I have discovered. If it should be learned, I would be the one hanging off the edge of the bridge, not the Rutherf–”

  Voices behind me caused me to slam the book shut and quickly replace it back on the shelf. The door opened and Appleby came in, followed by a very red-faced, very indignant Sir Henry.

  “Sir Henry, this is Mr. Dick–” the butler began but Westenra cut him off.

  “So, you finally decided to come, eh?” he snorted, glaring at me. “I’m surprised you even had sense to get on the right train. Very well, now that you’re here, you may as well be useful. The rest of the security staff won’t be arriving until tomorrow, so there’s nothing for you to do–so go out to the stables and see if you can lend a hand out there. They always need someone to clean up after the horses. Not what you signed up for, I’m sure, but I never waste men or time. I won’t have any layabouts here. Later, you can get the feel of the place. But whatever you don’t, don’t mess up! This conference is too damned important. I spent months trying to get the wretched French over here, and I won’t have anything spoil it now! Damn them anyway, miserable Frogs and their concerns about what we’re doing to the natives in India. They’re our wogs, not theirs. We’ll do what we like to them. Frogs and Wogs, what a combination, eh?” He glowered at me, as if expecting me to answer. I could swear his mustache actually flapped.

  I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of answering. Appleby just looked embarrassed. Instead, I said: “Whatever you like, Sir Henry. And may I ask about my sleeping quarters?”

  “Oh,” Westenra shrugged dismissively. “Yes. Well, space is at a premium here with the conference, so most of the arrivals’ aides will be rooming with the servants. I planned to have the security staff sleep out in the stables with the men out there. Since you’re here, I guess we can put you up with our house Indian, what’s his name, Appleby?”

  “Darshan, sir, Darshan Kri–”

  “Yes, Deershan. Whatev
er. You can sleep with him tonight. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t think of putting any white man with a wog, but you have to make do when you have to. What do you think of that, Mr. Dickson?” He looked at me smugly.

  “I think that would be fine,” I replied coolly. “I’ve already had the opportunity to meet Darshan, and would be glad to have him as a roommate.”

  Sir Henry looked at me bemusedly. Clearly he had been expecting another answer. Then he shrugged: “Suit yourself. Appleby, show Mr. Dickson to the stables for now. I’m sure they can find something useful for him to do.” He turned to leave.

  “Oh, Sir Henry,” I called, “one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “I look forward to meeting your son Peter. Is he here?”

  “Peter?” Sir Henry wheeled about. “Why would anyone want to meet him? Yes, yes, he’ll be here, if he’s not too drunk to walk. But I wouldn’t get too friendly with him.” He gave a wicked smirk. “He might take it the wrong way.” He turned on his heel and stalked out.

  I glanced over at Appleby. Once he had been certain his master was no longer in sight, he had leaned against the wall and gave a groan. “Sir, I apologize... it’s just Sir Henry’s way...”

  “Never mind, Mr. Appleby,” I said. “Just take me to the stables After the air in here, horse dung would smell far sweeter.”

  After a rather filthy rest of the afternoon, I ate dinner with the rest of the staff in the kitchen. I sat next to Kritchna, and Appleby led the table with great dignity and good manners. To his credit, he forced neither of us to join him and the rest in prayer before and after the meal. Afterwards, most of the staff left for bed or their other duties, while Appleby sat reading his Bible, waiting for any call. Tomorrow, I would learn my exact duties and master the grounds of the House, and so wanted to retire early. Kritchna had no other duties, so we both said goodnight and trooped upstairs.

  Kritchna’s room was at the very top of the House, just off the attic. At the door, he paused. “Welcome to the Wolfsbridge Savoy,” he said, “Please, make yourself comfortable.” And he opened to the smallest, most wretched garret I had ever seen.

  It was barely bigger than a closet. There were no furnishings for there was no room for them, just a small, rickety bed with a pillow shoved inside. There was barely enough room for one man to walk beside it. One lone window, a porthole really, let in what light there was. And there was precious little of that even in the daytime, for the roof above slanted down, neatly blocking the majority of the view There weren’t even actual walls, for the builders had simply left the bare wooden skeleton of the timbers showing. Kritchna slipped in, bent under the bed and pulled out a candle. With a match from his pocket, he lit it and then grandly gestured me inside. “The Royal Suite.”

  “Good Lord, this is ridiculous,” I exclaimed. “The other servants get regular rooms, even the tweenies. Why do you get this?”

  In reply Kritchna simply ran his hand down his skin. I bit off an obscenity.

  “I’m used to it by now,” Kritchna said, starting to pull off his clothes. “Just something else my people have to put up with.”

  “Oh, for–but, look, Kritchna... Darshan. I don’t know you very well, but you’re obviously an intelligent, gifted man. Why are you in Service? Surely there’s something else you can do than this. Working for the Foreign Office as a translator, perhaps, or...”

  “As I said, I have my reasons for being here,” Darshan said sharply “Now, move over, I’ve got to put this blanket out in the hall.”

  “Whyever for?”

  “Where do you think I’m going to sleep? You get the bed.”

  “You mean Sir Henry expects you to give up your own bed for me?”

  “For a white man, yes.”

  “Nonsense.” I was appalled. “I’m not about to kick you out of your bed just so I can have one. I’ll sleep in the hall.”

  “No, you won’t. If Sir Henry catches you, he’ll have both our heads. He may not like you, but you’re still white. He expects you to behave that way.”

  “I’d be ashamed to call myself a white man if I kicked another man out of bed just so I could have it. Look. There’s just enough room for the two of us. Why don’t we share?”

  Darshan looked skeptical. “Share the bed?”

  “Why not? At least that way we both get a bit of mattress.”

  “If you can call this piece of petrified timber a mattress. I’ve slept on iron bunks that were softer. But–all right. But you get the side by the wall. If someone comes up here, I have to hit the floor fast.”

  “Fine,” I replied, and quickly changed to my own nightshirt. I crawled in next to Darshan (the mattress groaning as I did) and he blew out the candle.

  “Just like Ishmael and Queequeeg, eh?” Darshan chuckled.

  “You’ve read that?”

  “I’ve read lots of things. Just as long as you keep your great white whale to yourself, sahib.”

  “No problem there.” We turned our backs to each other and closed our eyes.

  I couldn’t sleep. Which was unusual: for all my life I’ve been able to sleep anywhere, unfamiliar surroundings or not. Irritably I drew the lone blanket up closer. I felt cold. But no matter how tight I pulled, not matter how I curled up my body to converse heat, I could not get warm. And this on a summer night that would ordinarily make me perspire. Further, I was starting at every sound: the gentle whisper of bat wings over the roof, the creaking of settling floorboards, the hoot of an owl. Finally, I jerked up as the sound of tiny, regular pattering sounded on the tiles above us. Pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat. It traveled quickly down the slope of the roof, then up, then back down again. A rat? I wondered. Then I heard a piping little mew.

  “It’s Colleen,” Darshan murmured sleepily next to me. “She climbs the roof at nights. You get used to it.”

  “Mmm,” I mumbled, slipping back down. Mentally I admonished myself. It must have been all the talk of Spiritualism earlier, I thought. Playing games with my subconscious, making me jump at every little sound as if afraid a Spirit might jump out and seize me. Foolish. You know better than that, Dickson.

  Above, Colleen continued with her contented mewling. “Mew. Mew. Mew.” Enjoy yourself, my girl, I thought and started drifting to sleep again.

  That was when I heard the other noise.

  I say without exaggeration that it was the strangest sound I have ever heard. Heavy, and regular, spaced precisely like footsteps. Thump. Thump. Thump. But there was something odd, something wrong about each thump. Something incomplete I should say, as if whatever was causing it was something very big and very heavy and yet–not all there, if you know what I mean. It sounded almost as if someone had a great rubber bag half-filled with water and was steadily dropping it upon the roof, so it sounded more like Schtwhump. Schtwhump, schtwhump, schtwhump.

  “What the hell is that?” Darshan grunted, rising up in the bed. “I’ve never heard that before.”

  “Dunno,” I replied. “Could someone have gotten on the roof?”

  Whatever it was, it was moving steadily, if wetly, down toward the edge. Directly above us, Colleen the cat was still meowing, but suddenly fell silent just as the schtwhumping stopped. We could hear her hiss violently. Then there was a great, frightened “MRRROOWWWWWW!!!” and suddenly the little porthole that served as our window shattered into pieces! Darshan and I both clambered up clumsily, knocking into each other and trying to avoid falling glass, as we stumbled to the edge of the bed and over.

  “Damn!” roared Darshan. “What the bloody hell is going on? Where’s that damn candle?” There was the scratch of a match and the tiny pinprick of flame shone dimly. Darshan raised the candle up. “What happened?”

  “Something came through the window,” I snapped obviously, climbing back upon the bed. My hands pressed against several pieces of glass, cutting myself, but I ignored it. “But God knows–oh my!” I drew back. Darshan leaned forward, holding the candle out. He swallowed.

  There on the bed,
lying in a bloody heap, was the tiny, twisted body of Colleen.

  Her head had been completely severed from her neck.

  END OF PART ONE

  (To Be Continued in Volume 2)

  Rick Lai easily wins the prize for the story with the most pop culture references; he also wins the prize for the most interesting juxtaposition of myths: French pulp fiction and Italian Spaghetti Westerns, with a dash of Hong Kong cinema. A delightful smorgasbord (or bouillabaisse?) of plot twists, which will cause many to turn to the back of the book to trace the origins of all the characters…

  Rick Lai: The Last Vendetta

  New Orleans, Mardi-Gras 1900

  In the course of his 83 years, Arthur Gordon had been a fighter for Texas independence, a captain of a slave ship, a gambler, a duelist and a bigamist. He had been married to both Hermine de Chalusse of Paris and Francine Xavier of Austin at the same time. He was living a quiet existence in El Paso when a letter arrived that would revive an old vendetta.

  The author of the letter was Ignacz Djanko, alias the Undertaker. Descended from Croatian immigrants who settled in the American West, Djanko had been one of the most bloodthirsty gunslingers of the West. He had slain easily over 50 men in the course of his brutal career. Gordon first met Djanko along the Pecos River in 1878. At the time, Gordon was selling Lee Bailey’s machine guns. Bailey had been a Confederate gunsmith who had been forced to flee to Mexico when he got into trouble with the Federal troops stationed in the South during Reconstruction. Bailey was a genius who had made a vast improvement on the Gatling gun over a decade before Maxim invented his version of the machine gun. Wishing to reside in obscurity in Mexico, Bailey had gone into partnership with Gordon to market his machine guns. Gordon had sold one of these weapons to Djanko with the understanding that the Undertaker would convince a group of Mexican revolutionaries hiding out in Texas to purchase more. These revolutionaries were stragglers from General Santilla’s aborted attempt to overthrow Porfirio Diaz in 1877. Unfortunately, Djanko’s impatience and greed had caused the potential Mexican clients to prematurely return to their country and be massacred by Diaz’s forces.